


Tumblr Prompts

by abrae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Praise Kink, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and fluff, mostly angst, seriously though angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/pseuds/abrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the title says. Bits and pieces of fic from various Tumblr prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from agnesanutter was: Sherlock and John share a meal and someone chokes after something is said.

"Janine and I never had sex," Sherlock says. 

One impeccably accomplished Heimlich maneuver, two glasses of water, and a quick trip to the loo later, John sits back on the couch next to Sherlock and rubs his eyes. 

"Why are you telling me this?" he asks in his most long-suffering voice, and Sherlock looks away.

"It seemed to matter to you, the… sham."

John looks down at the half-eaten food on his plate - up at Sherlock’s chair where he’d sat with Janine - over to the kitchen, where the coffee had been moved. 

"Good," he says, and takes another bite.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from justmarymorstanning (wiggleofjudas) was: John finds a photograph that Sherlock never meant him to find, and then...

It’s been folded so many times the pieces barely hold together. A ruddy thumbprint on the lower right side, surface bubbled where water has fallen. John himself, squinting into sun, lashes light against the sea-blue of his eyes. More than a grimace, less than a smile; worn around the edges, clutched, bent, loved. 

"What’s this then?" John asks quietly. 

Sherlock, silent, meets John’s eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from thetimemoves was: Sherlock putting John's chair back where it belongs.

He knows Shezza’s hurt bad, and not just his body; ‘cause here’s Bill pulling a tatty chair down the corridor, and Shez stares and stares, his eyes like glass - hollow and empty. 

"Where d’you want it?" Bill asks and Shez lifts his head.

"There," he says, pointing to an empty space on the floor. "Did you bring what I asked?" 

Bill pulls out the bottle he’s nicked from the doctor’s flat, places it on the table, and Shezza’s eyes burn. 

Bill sees things, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from justmarymorstanning (wiggleofjudas) was: Johnlock praise kink, any rating?

His whole life, it’s been a constant, relentless pressure filling his mind; Mycroft - always prodding, pushing him to do better, more, to excel. To be smart where he’s always felt so stupid, to exorcise sentiment and hone his mind to a fine, incisive point. Deduction after exhilarating deduction, but it’s never (good) enough.

And there’s no respite from the incessant din - until John, who begins with sweet superlatives; but there are too many, he’s too easily impressed, and it means nothing that Sherlock’s mind dances where John’s plods alongside. His words are a quick fix - they feel good, but never distract from the drumbeat of disapproval that comes from within. It doesn’t matter that John’s impressed… but it does, it does that he’s pleased.

"Mm, that’s good," John says over a sip of coffee, flavored just as he likes - a random bit of data that’s survived Sherlock’s regular purge. A simple thing well done, but the appreciative smile on John’s face drowns out doubt and leaves Sherlock hungry for more. Tea, next; then the biscuits he likes, each warm "thanks" an ember that burns long and low, banked heat that lulls Sherlock’s ceaseless thoughts to sleep for a time.

It might be enough, but for a brush of skin - innocent, random, eliciting a soft gasp from John that stirs desire deep within. A hand on John’s shoulder kneads the muscle there, and John groans.

"God, Sherlock, that’s good," he says, and a wave of pleasure roils in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach. He redoubles his efforts; two hands now, coaxing John’s tight muscles to relax.

John leans into it, sighs and says, “Right there... that's… mmm” and suddenly it’s too much; Sherlock  _wants_ , more, recklessly bending low and pressing his lips to the nape of John’s neck.

"What -" John begins, and Sherlock pulls back, rests his forehead on John’s back and breathes, trying to calm his racing heart. 

"I’m sorry," he begins, but his voice wavers, too much, and John hears it - turns and sees the lost look in Sherlock’s eyes. 

"Hey…" he says, "No. It’s good - perfect. I should have known…"

Sherlock meets his gaze then, ready hurt lurking just out of sight.

"You should have known?" he asks, trying for cold, but John knows him too well. 

"That you’d be good at this, too." 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from agnesanutter was: Shezza spying on John and Mary

He crouches by a low concrete wall between the bins, hood pulled up over his hair, eyes glittering in the light that comes from a window across the street. It’s only John right now, sitting in the chair by the window, still and quiet. Sherlock ( _Shezza_ , he’s undercover) hungrily takes in the warm white gold of his hair, the way his fingers wrap around the glass in his hand. Sherlock recognizes all of John’s little tics - the way he cranes his neck from side to side, working out a kink; the way his right hand, resting on the arm of the chair, clenches ever so slightly. John is tight - tense - and Sherlock… 

…shakes his head violently, as if to erase an errant thought from his mind. He sighs, rubs both eyes with the grubby heels of his hands, then holds his head with long fingers that ache to touch something else - something clean and gold and sober. 

Distant headlights cast a white glare over Sherlock’s hunched form, and he hides his face in folded arms. It’s Mary, always on time and always arriving home with a distant look in her eyes that Sherlock can’t quite place. He watches surreptitiously as she looks up at John in the window, and it  _hurts_  in ways he’d never even imagined to see her proprietary eyes, possessing John in ways Sherlock never will. She climbs the stairs and goes inside, and now she’s bathed in John’s warmth - a kiss on the cheek, a smiling glance between them, and then a real kiss, deep and long and Sherlock watches greedily, wondering what it feels like when it’s love and not just pretend. 

And when they’ve closed the curtains, Sherlock ( _Shezza_  - undercover) stands and slinks back to his mattress to forget.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from thetimemoves was: Sherlock introducing John to his parents.

After introductions all around, Mary is shown to Father’s armchair while John steps outside to “get some fresh air.” Sherlock’s eyes silently follow him, and when John is out of sight Sherlock turns to find Mummy still there at his side. Her clear eyes are troubled; she reaches up a hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek, and just this once he allows it, closes his eyes and breathes deep. Rosewater, and with it memories of scraped knees and runny noses, half-truths and inconsolable loss. Only a moment, then he pulls away and turns to retreat to the kitchen. Soft, wrinkled fingers clutch his arm, holding him back, and Sherlock meets his mother’s eyes with a warning in his own.

But she’s always seen more than he likes and this time it’s too much - more than he can bear. 

"Please," he says under his breath. "Don’t... say a word."

Mummy squeezes Sherlock’s arm lightly, then smoothes the creases she’s made in his jacket. She blinks once, twice, silent in the dim light of the entry, her eyes searching his; then, after a moment, she smiles brightly.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about. Come along, there’s tea in the kitchen." 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from emmagrant01 was: Sherlock getting off that plane and looking over at Mary and John and realizing he's going to have to watch them be happy together after all.

 

Sherlock spots them on the tarmac - who could miss the bright red of Mary’s coat? Even John fades a bit next to her; or, he would if it were possible that John could fade at all. But for all that poppy red, for Mary’s bright blonde hair and her grip on John’s arm, Sherlock sees only the grey-flecked tufts of John’s hair being blown about in the wind - the deep blue of the cold sea in his eyes - the way the corner of his mouth ticks upward slightly as Sherlock’s plane taxis to a halt.

His return is an unknown variable in an equation Sherlock had thought he’d solved. John’s made his choice and Sherlock led him to it - practically put his hand in Mary’s and pushed them away - and his exile was the unwelcome answer to the question ‘what happens next?’

Now its certainty is gone, replaced by a strange liminality that’s somehow worse than death. Sherlock has returned as a dark spectre to haunt the edges of John and Mary’s happiness - seeing it, hearing it, and every day growing further away from John as he and Mary entwine; and the ache this thought provokes pulls at a heart he hadn’t known he had.

Yet, when Sherlock finally disembarks from the jet, John’s eyes, crinkling in the sun, seek his out. The smile John’s been trying to smother breaks free; he grins broadly and Sherlock can only return it in kind, eyes dancing at the sight of his friend.

And Mary, standing with John, watches them both.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from starrla89 was: I have a huge thing for kisses in the rain. I think John and Sherlock need this. :)

It’s not a blinding realization, but the sum total of a thousand things accumulated over the years. Sherlock opening the door for John, and the hand that rests lightly on the small of his back as they fight their way down crowded sidewalks. The morning tea that waits for John though Mrs. Hudson is gone; the neat labels penned on the bags of body bits that litter the refrigerator.

Stealthy looks that Sherlock thinks John doesn’t see, but he does - he always has, though he’s never acknowledged them. Clear eyes skimming John’s hair, the stubble on his chin, the belly that protrudes a bit more now than it did all those years ago. A sharp glance as John stops to catch his breath at the top of the stairs, and the wide-eyed bewilderment that lends innocence to Sherlock’s crinkled face when John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder one quiet evening on the couch. 

Their lives have knitted together over the years - a slipped stitch here is the hole that John’s marriage made, a visible knot their struggles to learn one another anew. Some rows too long, some far too short, but in all a thing of warmth and homely beauty, precious only to John and Sherlock for all that it’s unfinished.

Until John, absently trailing Sherlock one windswept day, adds two and four and a hundred to equal the weight of their years together, suddenly understanding Sherlock, and himself, in a way he never has before. Sherlock slows, missing the sound of John’s steps crunching in the fallen leaves behind him; turns and tilts his head. A light drizzle has begun to fall - just enough to frame Sherlock’s silvering curls in a dully glittering haze. John steps close, holds his umbrella over Sherlock’s head and his hand out to his friend, and he smiles softly when Sherlock unhesitatingly takes it. John searches Sherlock’s questioning gaze, then finally reaches his hand up to cup the back of Sherlock’s head. John gives a gentle tug, more question than demand, and Sherlock tumbles headfirst into a kiss, sinking into the soft lushness of lips and tongue, each wondering why they’ve never done this before, completing a tapestry neither knew they’d begun.

And the rain falls lightly, sheltering them from the world for awhile.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnesanutter prompted "Post-Reichenbach AU in which Sherlock reveals himself to John in a non-joking way."

By the time Sherlock strides through the doors of The Landmark, he's relying on neural pathways forged long ago to fill in the pooling blanks of his mind. He's vaguely aware of a strange anticipation lurking in the pit of his stomach, dis-ease warring with want - to see John,  _see_  him, though the mere idea threatens to undo the last of his tattered defenses.

Sherlock stills, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and when he looks up again --

 _John_.

Sherlock absorbs everything about him in a glance - heavy bags under his eyes and the slight shaking of his hands, suit ( _off the rack_ ) and tie, ring box --

His mind stutters to a halt.

And John, looking around the room as he takes a drink from his water glass, sees Sherlock. The glass falls to the floor, producing a small army of waiters as he stands oblivious to them, his terrible gaze never leaving Sherlock's wide eyes. Sherlock is rooted to the floor, able neither to fight nor flee, an alabaster statue towards which John staggers. The whole world is this place, this moment, a lifetime distilled to these precious few seconds.

And when John is standing before him, raging hurt surging from him with every wheezy breath he takes, Sherlock thinks wildly that a joke might do, might suck the tension away. But when he opens his mouth to make it, something animal and instinctive speaks instead.

"John," Sherlock rasps on a broken sob, unexpectedly falling to his knees - wrapping his arms around his friend's heaving waist - burying his head in the folds of John's suit jacket.

"John," he says, again and again and again.

And, eventually, John places his hands lightly on Sherlock's head, bending to stroke his curls as the shreds of Sherlock's indifference burn away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wiggleofjudas prompted: john/sherlock : angelo's : a question

In the end, after weddings and funerals, Christmases, pantos and graduations - a cornucopia of experiences both profound and mundane - John sits at the table by the window, waiting for Sherlock to come. He blows in like a small blizzard, the cold wind creating eddies of snow that swirl around him as he pulls off his scarf and coat.

John smiles. He’s got a soft spot for the Belstaff - can’t believe it’s still in one piece, wonders idly if perhaps Sherlock has a stash of them squirreled away somewhere.

His eyes are bright as he takes in Sherlock’s pinked cheeks and the silver streaks of his still-dark hair. Sherlock unceremoniously drops into his seat, perpendicular to John as always, and begins fiddling with the sugar packets.

"What was it that couldn’t wait, John?" he asks impatiently, his eyes scanning the road out of habit, and it’s all John can do not to giggle. It’s been over twenty years, and Sherlock still fidgets, and John still loves it.

Without answering, John raises his hand to catch their waiter’s attention. Angelo has been gone these seven years now; miraculously, the restaurant still stands.

A younger, thinner version of Angelo arrives at their table, pad in hand.

"Anthony," John says, the smile in his eyes an echo of his upturned lips. "Do you think we could have a candle for the table?"


	11. Pique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt, from wiggleofjudas, was "Molly gets angry." Mollstrade.

"Why did you never ask me out?"

Lestrade’s eyes widen in surprise; he stammers, blushing brightly, “I, er - what?”

Molly sets the bowl containing poor Helen Louise down on the table with a metallic thud and whips around to face him, arms crossed over her small chest. Her mouth makes a little moue of dissatisfaction and, for a fleeting moment, Lestrade thinks he’d like to kiss her just like that.

"Me, out. You -" 

Now it’s Molly who’s flushed; but (she reminds herself) she’s the one who broke up with Jim, she’s the one who learned to live without Sherlock, she’s the one who’s very nearly made up her mind to tell Tom the engagement’s off, and she wants to know, now, so she continues, “You like me, right?”

Lestrade’s eyebrows have elected to remain in their raised, upright position; his mouth hangs open, and no words - none at all - are forthcoming.

Eventually he gives a little shake of his head and croaks, “Uh… I - I… suppose?”

"You suppose?” Molly cries, and Lestrade unconsciously takes a cautious step back. 

"You asked me at John and Mary’s engagement party, didn’t you? If it was serious between me and Tom?"

When Lestrade’s eyes slide to the side as if looking for an escape, Molly reaches out, grabs a fistful of his jacket, and pulls his attention back to her. 

“Didn’t you?” she insists, and Lestrade nods hurriedly.

"Yes! I - I did. I think." 

Molly lets go and her hands drop to her side. 

"Then why… look, do you like me?"

Lestrade gives this the thought he thinks she deserves, his eyes flitting over her pretty braids, her flashing eyes, her sweet, sweet mouth, and he swallows.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. Like you."

She smiles shyly then, a beautiful contradiction, and says, “Well, next time, ask.”

Then she picks up Helen Louise and spins on her heel, leaving Lestrade gaping in her wake.


	12. The Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> redmageshabet prompted: "No, I won't."

"Sherlock."

He turns to find Molly tripping towards him in the dark, her arms wrapped tight around her chest, hands rubbing her goose-pimpled flesh. Her bright yellow bow is drooping under the weight of the day, an echo of the  downward pull of her quivering lips.

"Molly?" he asks, giving a tight shake of his head as his voice cracks on her name. She draws up close, then stops short when she sees his face in the light of the hall, the gravel of the walkway crunching under her heels.

"Are you all right?" she blurts out, concern suffusing her voice. His answer comes not in words, but in an aching loneliness that flits over his face. Molly knows he must be far gone to let her see it, even for a moment; she wants to reach out, almost does, but before her eyes Sherlock turns haughty and aloof, looking down at her in a way he hasn’t in years.

"Fine," he says, and Molly can’t help the small, sympathetic whimper that escapes her lips, nor the gentle tilt of her head that makes her bow flop heavily to the side. Sherlock blinks, frowns and takes a step back, incomprehension clouding his eyes. Now she does reach out - lays her small hand on his coat and gives his arm a squeeze.

"Good," she says with a nod. "Good - I’m glad. Won’t you come back in, though? You’re not leaving yet, are you?"

Sherlock’s eyes shift to the purpled windows almost imperceptibly, then away - to the trellis, the shrubs, the sky. 

"I think not." He looks down at Molly then, seeming to see her for the first time that night. Sherlock’s face softens - not so you’d know if you weren’t a friend, but Molly is and she squeezes his arm once more before letting her hand drop to her side.

"I understand."

They stand there wordless in the dark, the insistent, muffled bass in the background a dissonant accompaniment to their silence.

Sherlock looks away first, straightening. 

"Well then," he says, turning on his heel. "I’ll just -"

"Sherlock," Molly interrupts urgently. "You won’t… you won’t do anything, will you?"

"Of course not," he answers lightly, and Molly huffs in frustration.

"Look. You won’t - _do_ anything. Right?”

Sherlock meets her eyes; looking back on it later, Molly will recognize the lie in the way they crinkle, in the flash of that crooked smile she loves so much.

"No, I won’t." He leans close, presses dry lips to her cold cheek, then murmurs in her ear, "I promise."


	13. Consanguinity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thetimemoves prompted: Sherlock, Sally, coffee

"You look like shit."

Sally crosses her arms, her smirk widening to a smile. Sherlock takes a last drag of his cigarette, then drops the butt to the pavement - pushes off the wall, and grinds it with his shoe.

"Sally, always a pleasure," he says, his eyes fixed on the distance. 

She’s not joking; he looks worse than she’s ever seen him before, and that’s counting the days when he was a snot-nosed junkie rooting around crime scenes for his daily fix of murder.

"Jones got all the credit for the Waters case, you know." Sally shakes her head. "How could you do it?"

Sherlock meets her eyes; then he looks down - away - shrugs and says, “I don’t know,” and Sally… doesn’t know what to make of it. He knows _everything_ , never fails to remind them all time and time again.

"I see Anderson’s back with his wife again," Sherlock says, and there’s the bastard she knows, back from wherever he’d gone. Her arms tighten; she lifts her chin, the word ( _freak_ ) on the tip of her tongue, when —

"I’m sorry."

"What?" Sally’s arms drop to her side, and her mouth falls open. Sherlock scowls, then rolls his eyes.

"Close your mouth, sergeant. That’s not a good look on you."

Sally snaps her mouth shut, but her words cannot be so easily contained.

"Did you - did you just… " she asks, or tries to, and Sherlock nods exaggeratedly.

"Yeeess, yes. That’s what I said." He looks down at her again, and something in his chest deflates. "Sherlock Holmes has a heart. Alert the press," he says softly.

And suddenly it hits Sally with all the subtlety of an oncoming train: the freak’s lapdog isn’t with him today - hasn’t been in awhile, now that she thinks of it. She knows he was married, but that wouldn’t have stopped him - either of them - unless…

Sally shrugs. 

"I’ve got what you might call a weakness for him, and if he’s happy… "

"You could do better, you know," Sherlock replies. Sally’s lips tighten, and she shoves her fists into the pockets of her overcoat.

"I know," she says. "Like I said - a weakness."

Sherlock nods, almost as if to himself. 

"He seems… happy."

She doesn’t know if they’re talking about Philip or Watson anymore, so she rocks on her feet, humming in agreement. Her curls have fallen over her face as she’s been looking down at her shoes, and when she lifts her head and brushes back her hair, she catches a glimpse red-rimmed eyes on a too-pale face.

Without thought, without foresight or intention, Sally says, “Coffee?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline, his eyes widening at her words. He opens his mouth - closes it again and glances out over the congregated police cars as if looking for —

"Coffee. Yes." He takes a deep breath, lifts the collar of his coat; says, "I know a place not far from here," and then turns on his heel and begins walking away.

And Sally shakes her head, rolls her eyes and smiles wryly, then follows in his wake.


	14. Table for Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon prompted: "table for three"

"Table for three," Mycroft says, unusually subdued. It’s a testament to how lost he is that he hasn’t arranged a table in advance; or, it would be were it not for the other tell-tale signs. He’s forgotten his brolly - hasn’t even realised it yet, so it’s probably  at the church - and his hawkish gaze has gone soft, muted. He sees but… well, he doesn’t really even see. He’s just there. They all are.

Father removes his Burberry and hangs it on the hook by the door; Sherlock does the same, then follows his father silently to the table. He’s wearing a suit today, and it’s wrong - it’s not him, not the corduroy Sherlock remembers brushing against his cheek as a child, not the plaid that says home and love and warmth. It’s sleek and cool and everything he’s never been… but that’s what you do, isn’t it? Wear a suit. Accept that nothing will ever be the same again. Embrace uncomfortable change, because there’s no going back.

They haven’t even looked at their menus when the waiter arrives. Mycroft, always in charge even when he’s barely there, murmurs that they’ll need a few more minutes, and they’re left to look askance - Father at the door, as if waiting — Sherlock, at the floor, his hair falling conveniently over red-rimmed eyes. Mycroft, staring at the walls and seeing through them, past and beyond to a place somewhere beyond the reach of vision.

"We’d better decide," he says quietly after a few minutes. Long fingers, light menus, scarcely memorable but for the unbearable quiet. Sherlock’s eyes fall on the words _c_ _rème brûlée_ , and before he’s even aware of what’s happening, a tear - two - are falling from his upturned nose to the crisp tablecloth. The others haven’t noticed, so he quietly closes his menu and clears his throat; and when that’s not enough, he stands abruptly and removes himself to the lavatory until the moment has passed.

They eat in silence.

As Sherlock is seeing Father off in one of Mycroft’s innumerable sedans, Father suddenly stands straight, turns, and takes one of Sherlock’s slender hands in his own. 

"It was worth it," he says softly, patting the smooth skin of his son’s hand. "Every moment of every day - even if it had to end like this, it was worth it."

Sherlock would speak, but for the tightness of his throat.

"Don’t…" his father says, looking down at their clasped hands. He wraps his other hand around them and gives Sherlock’s clenching fist a gentle squeeze. "Don’t say no to love, son. Should it come. Never be afraid to say yes."

Sherlock nods. He can’t imagine love appearing in his midst (anymore), but if it ever should - if, one day, he’s given another chance and  _home_ happens to arrive on his doorstep in the form of warm plaids and soft jumpers, eyes so blue and heart in hand…

"I will," he says. "I will."


End file.
